by Margaret Way
“That’s what’s so interesting about you.” She stared up at him. “You’re always a step ahead. Make that a mile. When do I get to meet your grandmother? I’d like to look better than this.” She gazed down at herself, not happy with her casual outfit. Miss Em, always beautifully turned out, had liked her to look pretty. “Clearly she’s a great lady.”
“That she is,” Brant confirmed. “She actually has a title, if she cared to use it—which she never has. Not that I can remember anyway. She’s the Countess Alena.”
“Gosh, there must be a story in that!” Nyree gasped.
“A very sad story in parts, Nyree,” he said. “She may tell you one day. She has her own personal maid who’s been with her for twenty years. Her name’s Jasmin—part-Chinese, part-Malaysian. You’ll like her. As for you, you’ll do fine. You’ll meet Alena pre-dinner. She’s not as strong as she used to be. She has a heart condition—not major, but her health is carefully monitored. Dad and I don’t want to lose her. She said she’s not going anywhere until I’m happily married.”
“Then you’d better get a move on, hadn’t you?” Nyree responded sweetly.
“How do you know I haven’t got the right woman in mind?” he asked, focusing his attention on her.
“Gee, I bet she loves you to bits.”
“We’ll just have to wait it out and see. By the way, we’ll be having a few other people to dinner.”
Nyree showed her dismay. “Now you tell me! I’ll eat in the kitchen.” She already had confirmation that Lana Bennett was going to be one of them.
“Joke, is it?” he asked.
She angled a glance at him, throwing back her head to do so. “If I’m around you a day longer I’ll have to invest in some killer heels.”
He made a jeering sound. “Wouldn’t you be a tiny bit scared you’d topple over? Anyway, you must have packed a pretty dress?”
Nyree stared at him. “Give me a break. I came up here to work. I only brought rags.”
“As if I believe that. The outfit you’ve got on is kind of chic. Or you make it chic. I don’t mean really dress up, like Cinderella at the ball. Just a pretty dress, okay?”
She surprised herself by closing her fingers tightly around his wrist. “Listen, I don’t really want to join your little dinner party, Brant. I don’t know anyone.”
“You want to meet people, don’t you?” he countered.
“Sure. I’ve met the adorable Lana. Is she the woman you’re waiting for?”
“It’s really not your business, Ms Allcott.” He looked down at her delicate hand with its tapering fingers, an enigmatic smile on his face.
“How right you are!” She took her hand away, hopefully without blushing. “I just can’t help being curious.”
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You try to pick out something nice and—”
“Well, I do have…I only meant…”
“Kindly allow me to get in a word. I want you to join us. My grandmother will be expecting you. Ten people in all. Not a crowd. And when I’ve settled on the right woman I promise I’ll let you know. That’s if you don’t sell up before Christmas and head back home.”
Her dark eyes flashed. “I’m not selling, Brant Hollister. Let’s be very clear about that. I dare say your path has been strewn with successes, but you’re going to fail with me.”
“Am I?” he softly mocked.
“I’ve given you notice.” She spoke haughtily.
“What you lack in inches you make up for in voice projection. I can only ask who taught you that particular tone? The grandmother, right?”
It took Nyree a full minute before she could answer. “My grandmother makes me sound like Mother Teresa. Now and again I do employ her tone…”
“Well, I never!”
“And don’t laugh,” she said sternly. “I’m one serious person. I do Miss Em as well. But Miss Em was a true lady.”
“And you’re a great mimic,” he said, looking entertained. “Think you can amuse yourself this afternoon? I have appointments to keep.”
“Of course I can,” she retorted, vexed. “I’ll go down to the beach.”
“Take sunblock, and don’t go in far in the sea, though the bay is safe. You can swim?”
“Do you know anyone who can’t?” she asked caustically.
“Lana can’t,” he answered mildly. “Not well, anyway. She’s strangely averse to getting her hair wet. But don’t say anything. She might get upset.”
Immediately Nyree adopted the lotus flower position, bending her tawny head. “Your wish is my command, O Lord and Master!”
She had fully expected Brant would travel to his appointments in the Mercedes, or maybe the Range Rover she had spotted. Instead he took off in a Bell helicopter from a helipad in the grounds.
“Gadzooks!” she cried—one of Miss Em’s expressions. She stared upwards as the helicopter lifted into the intense blue sky, rotors whirring. A helicopter. A yacht. Surely there was a Lear jet tucked away somewhere? Maybe his dad had taken it on his business trip.
Her own accommodation was far more luxurious than the best five-star hotel. Brant had settled her in what was called the Topaz Suite. Apparently there was an Emerald Suite, a Turquoise Suite and an Amethyst Suite, which he said he would show her when he had time. There were servants. He called them household staff. A major-domo—Vincent—a very pleasant man, and his equally pleasant and attractive wife Gina, fiftyish, who was in charge of running the household. Both were obviously of Italian extraction. Gina had her own staff too, who all appeared to be Asian—probably Vietnamese. So, a league of nations.
Everyone smiled. Everyone appeared happy. Why wouldn’t they in such a splendid house set like a jewel in its glorious environment?
The Topaz Suite was huge—the topaz coming from the colour of the silk bedspread, the cushions and the upholstery on the daybed. The colour was picked up again in the South East Asian rugs that were scattered across the golden polished timber floor. There were no curtains, only white shutters that could be folded away or adjusted as required. The adjoining bathroom was fantastic. It had a huge picture window that looked directly out over the bay, the view framed by golden timber cupboards with open shelving that held lovely thick towels, bath mats, and all manner of bath salts, lotions, potions, body creams, fragrant soaps.
But what captured her attention way beyond the beauty, the space and the luxury of the suite was the painting in the bedroom that could be best viewed from the bed. It was a large oil on canvas, depicting a remarkable profusion of tropical flowers, giant leaves and ferns. The flowers dominated the canvas, but to the left was a view of a turquoise sea with a coral island rising out of it. To her stunned eye it was a tour de force.
She adored flower paintings. They were irresistible. They spoke a universal language. Her eye moved to the explosion of tropical orchids, lilies and liliums, hibiscus of incredible size, Torch Gingers, Strelitzias, some gorgeous flower she didn’t yet know, giant banana leaves, philodendron leaves. As specimens, they all looked so real she found herself putting out her hand as if she could touch them, inhale their heady scent. In the bottom right hand corner was a signature, in a small but beautiful script.
Howard Allcott.
That stopped her short. What on earth was going on here? Brant hadn’t been honest with her. Or not honest enough. What did it all mean? Her great-uncle had painted a portrait of his grandmother? She’d had no idea he had painted portraits. That was a very special skill.
And now this. She remained gazing at the painting for quite a while, her expression tender and sad, then she turned away, resolutely hunting out her bikinis. She had brought several—all nylon-Lycra. She might be petite, but she had just the right figure for a bikini. She intended going for a swim. The mysteries would have to wait.
Hair in a plait, she pulled on a cover-up, caught up her beach bag and her new hat, then made her way down through the house, across a grassy promontory to steps cut into the cliff face. The steps wer
e topped with granite blocks, and there was a hand rail to hold on to for safety.
Great buoyancy in her every movement, she jumped the last step onto the broad crescent of white sand that lay between her and the sea, that was glowing with a near neon luminosity and the tropical fluorescence. She stood still for a moment, filling her lungs with pure salt air. She couldn’t remember a time when she had felt so wonderfully carefree. This was heaven, and she didn’t have to pay for any of it. When some of the jungle was cleared at the farmhouse she might have her own view of the sea.
Halleluiah! She had lived through hard times. Bring on the good!
That unforgettable afternoon she frolicked in the crystalline shallows. Exhilarated, she swam out until she couldn’t touch the sea floor. Afterwards she did a little sunbathing, careful to apply lotion liberally beforehand. She could just imagine the comments she would have to endure should she acquire a pink peeling nose. Later she ambled along the foaming water’s edge, exploring right down to the next bay, picking up some exquisite shells. The only footprints on the sand were hers and the sea gulls’. Hours slipped by before she began to think of collecting her things and making her leisurely return to the house.
The spirit of the place welcomed her. She could feel it in her bones. For the first time since she had lost Miss Em her spirits were soaring. Miss Em would approve. Miss Em had loved her.
By the time she reached the top of the cliff the wind was whipping at her hair, pulling it out of its plait, nearly stripping her cover-up from her. She had been on the beach for hours. It was almost sunset. She turned one more time to stare out over the sea. Less than an hour ago it had been the colour of precious stones: emerald, sapphire and sparkling aquamarine. Now it had turned to indigo. Layers upon layers of colour were invading the western sky. Mauves, yellows, pinks, lime-greens, and an unbelievable palette of crimsons, with the dipping sun blazing in all its glory on its journey down the horizon.
Never had the world seemed so clean and bright. It was wonderful to be at one with nature, with the heavens and the sea. She dropped her beach bag, careful to weigh down her hat, which had somehow become precious to her, while she stood in a near mystical trance. In front of her dazzled eyes it was as if the western sky caught fire! A conflagration of red and orange, rose and gold. Such beauty would lift anyone’s mood.
“We call it the miracle hour,” Brant’s voice said from behind her.
Sexuality in sound waves. She spun like a dancer. It was staggering how familiar he seemed. How did one explain that? Their lives had barely touched, yet they had formed a connection that held a powerful physical component.
“Oh, you’re home!” she exclaimed.
“Twenty minutes ago.”
Brant allowed his eyes to move over her. She had at once the most innocent and the most seductive body he had ever seen. Small beautiful breasts, lovely limbs, glorious skin. In a matter of hours she had turned a sun-kissed pale gold.
“Enjoy yourself?” He kept his tone casual.
Did he really need to ask? She looked radiant. He had a mad impulse to fling out his arm and draw her into his embrace. Keep her there. He had never felt like that about a woman. Come to that, he had never really known what it was to be intoxicated by a woman’s beauty and bright, endearing personality. Now Ms Nyree Allcott, all of nineteen, had entered his life, instantly altering it.
You’re letting your senses get the upper hand.
God, yes. Hadn’t he wanted her in two minutes flat? What was even more extraordinary, it felt perfectly natural. As if it was meant to be. It was enough to take a man’s breath away.
“I’ve had a perfectly beautiful afternoon,” she answered him, in a soft reverent voice. “This is my kind of place. A dream of paradise! No wonder artists are attracted to the tropics. I’ve never see a more magnificent sunset. The sun is way down on the horizon, but it’s so glorious, so dazzling, it’s lighting up the entire sky.”
He spoke gently. “Stay with me and you’ll see many more.” He couldn’t retrieve the words. They had sprung from the depths of him. In their way, dynamite stuff.
“Aren’t you sweet?” She managed to answer calmly enough, even though something inside her began to ache to belong. To really belong! It was her dream. “When the jungle is cleared I’ll have my own view at the farm,” she said, trying to cover a moment of high emotion. “I know it can’t possibly match this—this is an absolutely perfect uninterrupted view of the sea and the not so distant islands—but only billionaires can afford this little lot.”
“We’re aware how fortunate we are.” He smiled, and the smile stayed in his brilliant turquoise eyes. “So, what have you chosen to wear this evening?” An arm around her shoulder, he turned her back towards the house.
“I don’t think I’ll tell you.” All of a sudden she wanted to hold on to him for dear life. Never let him go. Just being with him felt tremendously good. “I’ll make it a surprise.”
She had known him a day. She had known him all her life.
Nyree was making her way downstairs when she saw Brant hastening towards her. He was wearing a very stylish beige linen suit and an open-necked navy shirt with a cream stripe.
“You look beautiful.” He kept his tone light. In actual fact she looked exquisite, in a light-as-a-breeze floral dress that hung from spaghetti straps. The bodice cupped her small breasts, flowed close to her body to her ankles, showing off high-heeled gold sandals. All that beautiful skin on show. The dress was amazingly pretty, yet he guessed it would have been inexpensive. She had style. One either had it or didn’t. Money couldn’t buy it. Obviously she had shampooed the salt out of her hair. It sprang up and away from her small face in a gleaming, sinuous mane.
“Pass muster, then, do I?” There was challenge in her lustrous dark eyes.
“Okay—you look ravishing,” he conceded.
“And you look madly, dashingly attractive—even if we are on opposite sides of the fence. Come to escort me down to dinner? That’s a surprise.”
“I love it when you’re nice to me.” He slanted her an amused glance. “It so happens Alena wants to meet you before the others arrive.”
“Oh, my gosh!” Nyree looked down at herself. Her outfit was pretty—it was a great pattern—but no way would it hold up against what she guessed the Countess and the female guests would be wearing. Always needing to give people labels, she had already secretly identified Brant’s grandmother in her mind as the Contessa.
“There’s absolutely no need to be nervous,” he said. “Come along.” He held out his hand.
Quiet fell over her.
Alena Kalenin—Hollister—was nothing like Nyree had expected. She had imagined from Brant’s height that the Countess would be a tall woman, rather like Miss Em. Spare, elegant, commanding.
The lady that confronted her, seated in an armchair more like a throne which dwarfed her, was tiny!
Nyree thought when standing even she would easily top her. Probably she had diminished with age. Which wasn’t to say she wasn’t immensely regal. She was. Her silver hair had been set to form a halo around a remarkably unlined parchment-textured face. She wore a long midnight-blue moiré silk dress and a glorious necklet of large pearls that sat perfectly within the high neckline. Her eyes were as dark as Nyree’s own. Dark and piercing beneath artfully tended high-arching black brows.
Her voice, when it came, was firm and precise—no sign of age—with an accent after long years still in place.
“Please, my dear, let me have a look at you—Howard’s great-niece.”
In such a presence—and the suite was mind-bogglingly Old World opulent as well—Nyree found herself dipping into a spontaneous little bob. “Good evening, Contessa,” she said, moving forward. “It’s an honour to meet you.”
There was nothing whatsoever studied about her, Brant decided, standing quietly in the background. It was obvious their young guest had spoken from the heart. Indeed, she had shown for the first time in his hearing an acce
nt of her own in saying contessa. Of course—she had Italian blood. He wondered if she spoke the language, as he did.
“Eyes—the windows of the soul!” Alena pronounced, leaning forward in her chair and offering Nyree a tiny be-ringed hand, the wrist encircled by a magnificent diamond cuff. Diamond and sapphire pendants swung from the lobes of her ears. “Yours are so beautiful and so pure. You have come to the right people, Nyree. A lovely name. It suits you. I well remember a beautiful New Zealand actress called Nyree Dawn Porter. She played Irene in the Forsyte Saga. But that was way before your time. Whatever you wish to do, child, we will help you. Be assured of that. I see no trace of Howard in you. Your Italian blood is uppermost.”
“On my mother’s side, Contessa. My mother was very beautiful.”
“As are you!” The Contessa threw up her tiny hands. “I wanted Brant to bring you to me so we could meet for the first time in private. We will talk later at length, if you would like that?”
“I would indeed.” Nyree blushed. “Your grandson has been very kind to me, when he could easily have been otherwise.”
“Not so!” The Contessa flashed her grandson such a spirited, loving, mischievous smile that Nyree immediately caught a glimpse of the great beauty of the Contessa’s youth. The cheekbones were still there. The arched brows and the brilliant eyes.
“You see the resemblance to the girl in the Alma Tadema?” Brant asked.
“But of course!” his grandmother exclaimed. “Nyree’s beauty is classic. And that hair! You may not believe this, Nyree,” she confided, “but I once had hair to my waist. And such hair! Not all those wonderful waves and curls like yours, but straight—very thick and lustrous. My hair was as dark as my eyes. Tomorrow, perhaps, I’ll show you the Alma Tadema.”
“And my great-uncle’s portrait of you?” Nyree begged. “I would love to see it. To see you!” The sincerity rang genuine.
“I’ll think about it,” Alena said slowly. “Now, I suppose we must go down to the guests. Nyree—I’ll take your hand.”